


of complete simplicity

by todreaminscarlet



Series: an interlude [1]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, One-Shot, The Force, is totally its own character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-21
Updated: 2016-07-21
Packaged: 2018-07-25 19:10:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 697
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7544461
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/todreaminscarlet/pseuds/todreaminscarlet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He sits silently, his back straight and head bent, with his hands resting on his crossed knees, palms open to the universe above him. His eyes are closed, and the whispering sands and mournful winds of the desert around him are falling away to be replaced by the susurration of the Force, swirling around him and through him. It is everything, demands everything, and he willing gives all it requires.</p>
            </blockquote>





	of complete simplicity

**Author's Note:**

> Obi-Wan is the best, and I have no chill regarding him.

He sits silently, his back straight and head bent, with his hands resting on his crossed knees, palms open to the universe above him. His eyes are closed, and the whispering sands and mournful winds of the desert around him are falling away to be replaced by the susurration of the Force, swirling around him and through him. It is everything, demands everything, and he willing gives all it requires.

The lonely desertion of the sands sifts away like the sands of a hourglass and here, there is no loneliness, no grief, no pain. The Force asks it of him and then tears away that which he offers in open palms and leaves him breathless, hungry, filled. It is everything—beautiful and painful, the present and the past and the future. It is the trees in the temple gardens, the humming of a lightsaber, the discipline of a _kata_ , the laughing of the children, the burning heat of a funeral pyre. The Force is painful and consuming, and he yields gently, calmly, with the practice of a child and the patience of a master.

There is no pain—the Force is pain.

There is no grief—the Force is grief.

There is no joy—the Force is joy.

 _Nothing, nothing, nothing_ , the words echo through his head, achingly aware as he is of his fragility, his failures, his failed faith. He is just the humble vessel for this power, the unworthy servant of the Force, and all he can do is sit and bathe in its cleansing comfort. _Nothing_.

 _No_ , the Force hums to him; it rejects his humble prayer, this misunderstanding of his role, his being, no, no, the _humble servant of the Force_ — _yes_ , he thinks and sinks into peace and calm, and he breathes.

 _Yes_ —he is servant and tool and vessel all at once, a child only beginning to understand, but he is also master, wiser than he was the year before, more obedient from the trials, harder from the flames, softer from the losses ( _hope, always hope_ , he thinks, and even now, his pain does not overtake his heart).

The Force sweeps over him in rushing waves, like it has for as long as he’s begun to understand its existence. He was first hesitant and distrusting (he was young, so very young) and then desperate and hurting and willing, and _use me, use me, use me_ became his constant refrain. It fills him to the brim and he gasps in an aching breath, and he could be fourteen again, a stubborn, foolish padawan on a meditation cushion with hands gently clasped in the calloused, warm palms of a master. Twenty one again—in love, willing to walk away and yet unable to resist this siren call of servitude over the desires of youth and beauty and flesh. Twenty five—a knight uncertain, a little betrayed, still faithful and trying and hurting and still so very young. Thirty six—exhilarated, conflicted, connection and wit and love in its own, pure form within grasp—

He opens his fingers wider with his palms open to the stars above him, the worlds he once flew through, danced between, saved with a chuckle and a glint in his eyes and a flick of his wrist now only seen as a glimmer, a moment’s memory.

The sand is no longer too hot or the suns too intense. His brow is smooth and he is both here and far away, embracing, open. _I remember, I remember, I remember_ , he thinks (the burning of muscles as he holds the last beat of a _kata_ , the heat of the tea steaming in his hands, the crispness of new robes falling over his shoulders). This could be the temple, _is_ the temple, here on dust and sand, trees and water and life far far away from here.

Here is the Force, and here is Jedi—he is here and he knows that he does not know, and he is here and he breathes and his heart aches—and it is the Force, here, now, tomorrow, in the wind, in the air, in the space between the stars. Here, here, here.

He breathes.

**Author's Note:**

> @adaperturamlibri on tumblr! come talk to me about the glorious tragedy of Obi-Wan and watch me fall apart.


End file.
